Poezja

A dewdrop climbs
a cloud to inspect the
Broca's area and tears.

My speech was
fragmented, picking the
wrong words to convey―
the pith.

Weary thoughts tremble.
You won't be near me, when
the jungle burns.

A war always
looms large, between the sky
and caged birds.
I don't want to break.

Venus flytrap,
becomes my home, I need
to sit at the edge
till sun sets.